


Speak My Language

by Itsallfine



Series: A Holiday Triptych [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Declarations Of Love, First Kiss, It goes surprisingly well, John Watson Experiments on Sherlock Holmes, Love Confessions, M/M, Mrs. Hudson Ships It, Mrs. Hudson knows exactly what she’s doing, Thanksgiving, The Five Love Languages
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-23
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2019-02-19 06:45:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13118274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Itsallfine/pseuds/Itsallfine
Summary: When Mrs. Hudson introduces John and Sherlock to the concept of the five love languages, Sherlock descends into a dark mood and John’s curiosity gets the better of him. What is Sherlock’s love language, and why does the whole concept set him so on edge?(All fics in this series are stand-alone)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fic in a series of three holiday fics based on American Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year’s Eve. They’re all unrelated, first time get-together stories set in the nebulous “good times” when John lives at Baker Street. Sorry it’s super late for Thanksgiving!
> 
> Yeah, the core concept of this one is a bit crack-y, but just go with it. 
> 
> Thanks to Wiscolina for the beta!
> 
> EDIT: Some people seem to think that the Five Love Languages is something I came up with, and I don't want to take credit! It's definitely not. Google it and you'll find a bestselling book with a billion editions. I had to read it in a college psychology class on human relationships and sexuality years ago and it stuck with me. Definitely not my idea, just something I thought would be fun to apply to John and Sherlock. :)

 

 

John was impressed.

It wasn't all that unusual, true; He was often impressed with Sherlock, and unfortunately vocal about it, a fact that never failed to elicit snickers from any nearby members of London's Finest.

Being impressed with Sherlock's restraint and manners, however, was a wholly new experience.

"And so I told Mrs. Turner she was being silly," Mrs. Hudson said with a wave. "Money is tight enough for her as it is and you know I've no shortage there, but she _insisted_ on giving me this book for my birthday. She said it was something I needed to read because of that little fight with Mr. Chatterjee. Such an overreaction, don't you think, John?"

Sherlock's lip twitched with a suppressed laugh, and John cut him a quick look over the wreckage of dinner sprawled across Mrs. Hudson's dining table. _Don't spoil it when you're doing so well, git_.

"Oh yeah? What's the book about, then?" he asked, managing to sound only slightly pained.

Mrs. Hudson laid a hand on John's shoulder. "Oh, I thought it was silly at first, but it's actually quite interesting! It's called “The Five Love Languages”, and it's about how everyone has a particular way they prefer to receive love."

Sherlock let out a barely audible sigh, no more than a faint whisper of air, but John's brow furrowed. "How can you receive love in different ways? You just... love someone or you don't, I thought."

"Oh, I'm not saying it correctly. It's like this. My husband always used to show me he loved me by buying me expensive gifts and the like. Now, don't get me wrong, I did love the cars, but what I really wanted was for him to tell me he loved and appreciated me. He could buy me a hundred diamonds, but what I really wanted was for him to actually say the words 'I love you' more often."

Well, that sounded simple enough. "Okay, so, he was telling you he loved you in one way, but you wanted to hear it in a different way."

Mrs. Hudson nodded emphatically. "Exactly. And it's incredibly common. A lot of people don't even realize that a lot of their gripes with their spouses, friends, and family all come down to a simple miscommunication on a very basic level."

Sherlock shifted in his chair and knocked his foot against John's under the table with a pleading expression.

John shot him a dirty glare and couldn't resist the opportunity to get under his skin.

"So, five love languages you said? What are they?" he asked, his voice syrupy sweet. Sherlock kicked his ankle. Mrs. Hudson beamed.

"Let me think for a moment... there's words of affirmation," she said, ticking each one off on her fingers, "gift giving, acts of service, physical touch, and quality time."

"Huh." John thought back through dozens of failed relationships, but couldn't find the common thread. What had he always wanted that he hadn't gotten? What had they wanted that he hadn't given?

"She was right, though," she continued. "Mr. Chatterjee and I had a lovely talk about it and I understand now that his physical needs are much greater than I'd previously—"

John coughed hard, bringing _that_ particular line of discussion to a sharp close. "So, love languages, yeah. They can help friends and family too, you said? What about you, Sherlock, what's your love language?"

Sherlock's mouth tightened, and his eyes reflected something dark and tense. "I've had enough. Thank you for dinner, Mrs. Hudson, but we'll be going now."

He pushed back from the table to stand, but John stopped him with a hand on his arm. He couldn't resist. The conversation had led them to this point, and the information was right there. So close. Did Sherlock want to be loved in a particular way?

Did Sherlock want to be loved at all?

"Oh, come on, Sherlock, it's just for fun," John said, keeping his voice light. "I know you don't do the whole sentiment thing, but we all know how much you love for your genius to be appreciated. What is it, then, words of affirmation? You like being told how clever you are?"

A shadow passed over Sherlock's face, and stood so fast his chair skidded backward with a clatter.

"This is utterly moronic," he spat, and stormed out of Mrs. Hudson's kitchen, slamming the door behind him.

John blinked.

"Well, that seemed a bit of an extreme reaction, even for him."

"Bit of a sore subject for him, dear. He'll come round," Mrs. Hudson said with a pat on his arm.

Sore subject?

"I know it doesn't really feel things that way, but I don't see why that would make him so angry."

Mrs. Hudson fixed him with an incredulous stare.

"John Watson, you aren't a stupid man, so why you insist on saying such stupid things?"

John blinked to make sure it was truly Mrs. Hudson standing in front of him, not Sherlock. "Come again?"

Mrs. Hudson shook her head sadly and began to clear the dinner dishes.

"How have you been showing him how you feel so far?"

John mustered a weak protest, but quickly gave up at the look on Mrs. Hudson's face. "I do everything to take care of us. I do all the shopping, I keep us fed, I watch his back on cases, I clean up his messes. What don't I do?"

Mrs. Hudson hummed. "And what's something he's done or said that really meant a lot to you?"

John sat back and thought. Sherlock had done a lot to infuriate him, that was for sure, but he'd also said some things, here and there, that that had really moved him.

"Well, there was this time during the Baskerville case when he told me he didn't have friends, that he just had one. Me. And the things he said during his best man speech..." John cut off, his throat closing at the memory of words he'd always wanted to hear from Sherlock, but in the wrong context. Thank God that whole Mary mess was over, at least.

"Well, it seems to me that you've been trying to show him through acts of service, but that's apparently not his love language. Perhaps you should try something else."

"Perhaps he doesn't _have_ a love language because he thinks the whole things is bollocks," John grumbled bitterly, and Mrs. Hudson fixed him with a frightful glare.

"John, you should know better than anyone how deeply that man cares for the people in his life."

"He has a funny way of showing it," he muttered.

Mrs. Hudson shook her head.

"Maybe he's just not speaking the language you want to hear. Think about it."

"Fine. Sure." He pushed away from the table and stood, gathering the dishes from Sherlock's place, because of course Sherlock hadn't bothered.

John thanked Mrs. Hudson for dinner and went straight up to his bedroom to lick his wounds, bypassing the main floor of the flat altogether. He assumed that would be the end of it.

But he _did_ think about it.

What _was_ Sherlock's love language? If he were to want to receive love, how would he want it? How would he hear it? It apparently wasn't acts of service, as John had tried that plenty. But that still left four options.

Gift giving. Quality time. Words of affirmation. Physical touch.

He'd just have to take a leaf from Sherlock's book and perform an experiment.

He'd try all four.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

**TRIAL #1 - Gift Giving**

 

John took a few days to make some baseline observations for his experiment. He’d been a medical student, after all; Despite what Sherlock thought, he did know a thing or two about research. Average physical proximity, with an additional count of significant deviations. Average number of texts per day. Frequency and duration of eye contact. Average number of significant* touches per day.

(* - more than fleeting or accidental contact, a deliberate touch. Though, knowing Sherlock, any “accidental” contact could in fact be deliberate, played off with his superior acting skills.)

After secreting these completely unlabeled numbers away in his case notebook, it took John two long weeks to figure out there was no good time or place to spring an unexpected gift on someone.

 _Bollocks_.

He thought about simply leaving the small black bag on the kitchen table for Sherlock to find while he was at the clinic, but knowing Sherlock, he'd never mention it after the fact. Not being there to observe Sherlock's reaction in the moment would render the whole thing pointless.

He thought about giving it to Sherlock during one of their dinners out, or during a quiet movie night on the couch together, but both felt too... intimate. Too revealing. It wouldn't do to spoil the whole experiment by scaring Sherlock off before he could test all four languages.

He thought about giving it over breakfast, but then if it went poorly he'd have to endure the awkwardness all day.

John finally sprung it on him, unplanned, on their way out the door for a case.

"Wait, Sherlock, uh... wait there a tic."

Sherlock whirled around with knitted eyebrows.

"No time, John, we need to get there before the forensics unit or they'll spoil the whole thing—"

"Just thirty seconds, Sherlock. Stay there." And up the stairs he went, snatching the small bag from the back of his sock drawer and thundering back down a moment later.

"Here," he said, handing over the bag before he could he could lose his nerve. "You left your gloves at that crime scene in Clapham, and I saw these and thought you'd like them."

With a quizzical look, Sherlock reached into the bag and removed the gloves, stitched from supple black leather and more expensive than anything so small had a right to be. They were lined with the softest material John had ever touched, and they had tiny metallic threads sewn into the fingertips so Sherlock could still use a touchscreen without removing the gloves. Practical for someone who _prefers to text_.

Sherlock slid them on and flexed his hands, staring down at the gloves in apparent confusion.

"Thank you, John," Sherlock finally said.

And that was that.

The cab ride to the crime scene was no different than any other, Sherlock filling John in on the details of the case, though he did ball his hands into fists several times, as if testing out the gloves. No change in overall demeanor, though. No extra glances at John. No change in general proximity, or frequency of touch.

Not gift giving, then. Probably.

The gloves did look amazing on Sherlock’s hands, though.

Something about seeing those long fingers wrapped in soft leather, in _his_ gift, did things to John.

He cleared his throat and looked out the cab window.

On to the next one.

  


**TRIAL #2 - Quality Time**

 

The second trial hadn’t even begun and it was already going poorly.

Too obvious, it was too _obvious_. It had been a terrible idea to start, and John very nearly called and cancelled their reservations.

Only nearly, though, because apparently Mrs. Hudson could smell cowardice.

“John, if you don’t go through with this date, so help me—”

“It’s not a date, Mrs. Hudson,” he snapped without thinking, then deflated. “Not that he knows, anyway. I’m just trying out the quality time thing.”

“You know, you could just spend quality time together at home.”

John sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. “But we do that all the time and it doesn’t seem to mean anything… _special_ to him. So I thought I’d try this. Spending quality time together doing something a little different. He’s probably going to realize five seconds after we get there. Hell, probably before we even leave. I’m wearing my date shoes, aren’t I? I need to go change my shoes—”

“SHERLOCK!” Mrs. Hudson shouted up the stairs. “GET DOWN HERE THIS INSTANT!”

John’s eyes widened.

“No, no, no, wait—”

Footsteps thudded on the staircase.

John fixed Mrs. Hudson with a baleful stare.

“This betrayal will not be forgotten,” he managed, right before Sherlock staggered into the entryway.

“Mrs. Hudson, are you—”

Then he caught sight of John, took in his attire with a sweep of his all-seeing gaze, and his expression shuttered.

“Off on a date tonight, then? Who is it, the barista from Tuesday? She has ten cats, you know, and—”

“Actually,” he interrupted, a bit sharply due to Mrs. Hudson’s elbow jab. “I was just telling Mrs. Hudson that I found a new restaurant I think you’d like. I made reservations. If you don’t have anything on tonight.”

Sherlock blinked, and his gaze swept over John one more time in apparent confusion.

“I’ll go change,” he said, and drifted back up the stairs without another word.

John let out the breath he’d been holding. Mrs. Hudson patted his arm.

“I’ll make you a cup of tea while you wait.”

Only John’s momentary fear of being alone in the flat with Sherlock kept him from glaring at her and storming away in a huff.

 

* * *

 

The restaurant wasn’t their usual style, and John was painfully aware. The decor of The Dairy was hipster rustic, with simple wood tables, exposed brick, and bare bulb light fixtures with dark metal piping and wire. The menu had strange combinations of flavors and ingredients, as did the drinks, but thankfully Sherlock caught on as soon as he glanced at the tasting menu.

“They use a lot of honey here,” he observed, ordering a honey-laced whiskey to start.

John mustered a nervous smile once the server left. “They have beehives on the roof here. The sous chef who maintains the hives said he’ll give us a private tour, if you want. He’s a fan.”

And he saw the moment it all snapped together in Sherlock’s mind, the reason John had selected this restaurant that was so far outside their typical neighborhood or taste. The tiniest smile curled at the corner of Sherlock’s mouth, and John’s heart thumped hard in his chest.

“I’d like that,” Sherlock said.

John wet his lips.

“Right. Okay. Good. I’ll… let him know.”

Thankfully, Sherlock took over the conversation from that point, educating John about the intricacies of a successful bee hive while John took the time to quietly panic. He felt flayed open, heart on display, but he forced his attention on Sherlock’s words as they savored cheese slathered in honey and tender bits of fancy meats on tiny pieces of toast. The food _was_ excellent, if a bit pretentious, and the honey was unlike anything he’d ever tasted.

By the time they’d finished several small plates and two excellent drinks each, John had relaxed enough to enjoy the whole point of the night: quality time with Sherlock. His gaze drifted from Sherlock’s sharp gray eyes down the line of his neck, lingering on the dip of his clavicle and the straining buttons over his chest as that rich voice carried him from course to course. These were his favorite sorts of moments, the moments where their friendship was an effortless flow of inappropriate laughter and charming banter. When the sous chef arrived to take them on their private tour it was like emerging from a hazy half-asleep daydream, their own private bubble.

As soon as they stepped out onto the rooftop, Sherlock went straight for the beehives, firing a thousand questions a minute at the poor chef. The bloke took it all in stride, though, chatting cheerily about his bees and cooking with obvious pride as he led them around the space. Long wooden boxes lined the edges, packed with herbs of every variety on their last legs of the season, barely hanging on in the cold.

The chef pulled a honeycomb frame from one of the hives and offered them a taste, scooped out onto sticky fingers. And somehow, the raw honey here was even more intense than what had been served at their table.

John’s gaze caught on the golden sticky sweetness glistening on Sherlock’s fingers in the evening light and felt the breath evaporate from his lungs. He burned with the need to touch Sherlock, to take his hand as they walked among the beehives, to draw him close, to kiss the sweet honey straight off his lips and taste it on his tongue—

It was one of the best nights they’d had together.

And John never did get an accurate reading for his experiment.

He realized too late that every time they spent an evening together, John sank into it wholly, let himself get just as wrapped up in Sherlock as he did during a case, let the time go by and the space between them erode until he was drunk on proximity and cleverness. At the end of it all, John couldn’t be sure how much of it was Sherlock and how much was his own feelings showing through, coloring the experience.

Maybe if he’d had time to go home and process, to lie in bed and replay every moment of the not-date and analyze, he could have unearthed some usable data.

But he didn’t.

Because just as their eyes met over the honeycomb, they got a call.

The game was on.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The Dairy](http://the-dairy.co.uk/) is a real place with real bees. I've never been there and I know nothing about the sous chef other than what's mentioned in [this article about the bees.](http://www.telegraph.co.uk/foodanddrink/11731443/Urban-nectar-why-Londons-top-chefs-are-turning-into-beekeepers.html)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops, sorry, the ending got too long and I had to break it into two chapters. The final chapter is already done, so it'll be up in the morning. :)

 

**TRIAL #3 - Words of Affirmation**

 

The phone call and case were like a dash of ice water after their intimate dinner. John had glared at the phone when it appeared in Sherlock’s hand, but his irritation softened at Sherlock’s slight hesitation, the cut of his eyes over to John’s before accepting the case.

He felt it, too, then. The weight of the moment.

But then they were off, jumping fences, hailing cabs, ruining their nice clothes in pursuit of a man with a fascinating obsession with antique clocks and ex-girlfriends. Wordless communication, instinctive protection, inappropriate laughter, and scolding from the DI.

It was John’s favorite sort of case.

It was also an opportunity.

“Fantastic,” John said when Sherlock deduced the link between the clockmaker and the suspect.

“Amazing,” he said when Sherlock led them through a maze of alleys to the perfect ambush point, navigating the streets without hesitation.

“Absolutely brilliant,” he breathed into the inches between them when Sherlock crowded him up against the side of a building, one hand propped on the wall over John’s shoulder and breathing hard while they waited.

John couldn’t tell if the flush in Sherlock’s cheeks was from praise or exertion, but the proximity of Sherlock’s mouth was dizzying, the air between them charged. He nearly grabbed Sherlock’s lapels and pulled him into a kiss right then.

Their suspect continued to have terrible timing, however, and off they went once again.

When the DI and his officers finally showed up to take the suspect off their hands (quite literally, in John’s case), John ended up backed into a corner by a rather persistent Officer Jamison who wanted to “take his statement.” She was exactly the sort of woman John would have gone for, before. Confident, bold and direct, free with her innuendo and with the buttons of her shirt. Her dark hair was pulled back from her lovely round face, her eyes bright and mischievous.

He could not have been less interested. And even if he had been tempted, the look on Sherlock’s face when John spotted him over Jamison’s shoulder would have killed it instantly. He cut off whatever she’d be saying with a shake of his head.

“Look, Sherlock and I need to head home. Just have Lestrade contact him if you need any more details, yeah?” he said, slipping past her. Sherlock had turned away and started toward the curb, and John was damned if he was going to let Sherlock strand him there to go home and sulk alone after the night they’d had together. Dinner and a case. Their perfect date.

Besides, he still had an experiment to run.

“Sherlock, wait!” he called. Sherlock stopped but didn’t turn around, the line of his shoulders hunched and rigid.

“What are you doing here?” he all but spat when John drew close enough. “She was obviously quite willing. Or did you get her number for later instead? You needn’t have bothered. She’ll quite happily take you back to her place right now, though I’ll warn you she has a rather large dog and her apartment will be a wreck.”

“I don’t want to go home with her, Sherlock,” John said, taken aback. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but the sheer venom in Sherlock’s voice was more than he’d heard in a long time.

Maybe he needed to hear it. _Words of affirmation_ and all. He’d tried throughout the night, but he thought perhaps he’d offered his praise too freely over the years and it’d lost its potency. _Amazing. Brilliant._

Or perhaps recognition for his brilliance, no matter how much Sherlock enjoyed it, wasn’t the kind of affirmation he needed. Maybe he wasn’t saying the right things.

How close to the truth could he get without risking it all?

“Sherlock,” he said before he could talk himself out of it. “You know…”

He cut off, panic dashing his mind blank. Words, he needed _words_. Why was it always so _difficult_ ? The whole experiment would be pointless, though, if he didn’t push himself beyond his normal bounds of expression. _More. Go further_.

Sherlock needed it. Deserved it.

_Say the things you wish he would say to you._

“You know you’re the most important thing in my life, right?” he said, forcing the words out, though his own throat tried to hold them back. “I’m not going anywhere. Never again. And that—” he waved a hand back at the officer, “—was completely one-sided. I’m not going _anywhere_ except home with you _._ ”

“You’re free to do as you like, John,” he said, but his heart obviously wasn’t in it. He couldn’t even meet John’s eyes. John’s heart _ached._

“Right. Well then.” John stepped forward and nudged his shoulder against Sherlock’s. “What I’d like to do is stop off somewhere to pick up a curry, head back to Baker Street, and watch a film with you until you decide you can actually sleep. Then tomorrow morning, I want to drag you out for brunch while you’re still susceptible to being fed.”

A slow smile curled at the corner of Sherlock’s mouth, and he glanced up at John’s eyes for the briefest instant before looking down the street for a cab to hail.

“Trying to feed me up, Doctor?”

John had to bite the inside of his lip hard to keep from grinning like a fool.

_Use your words, John. It’s working. Sherlock Holmes is flirting with you._

_It’s working._

“Yeah. It’s my job,” John said. “To look after you.”

Sherlock’s smile faltered.

“As my doctor?”

A cab slid to a stop in front of them, and John held the door open for Sherlock.

“No.”

The flush on Sherlock’s cheeks as he climbed into the cab filled John with more hope than he’d ever felt in his life.

 

 

* * *

 

  
**TRIAL #4 - Physical Touch**

 

John blew out a long, slow breath.  
  
He'd been dreading this trial since the start of the experiment.  
  
They'd always spent quality time together. He'd always bought things for Sherlock on occasion, when he saw something he needed or wanted. He'd even told Sherlock of his admiration in words, though not in the most romantic terms, he supposed. He'd tried to get closer to the truth, to say something that couldn't be as easily written off as friendship or admiration. And it had worked better than the other three love languages, at least. There'd been a crack in Sherlock's defenses last night, one he’d been sorely tempted to push at. If the final trial didn't do it, he'd definitely be trying words of affirmation again.  
  
But first, there was physical touch.  
  
John could count on his two hands the number of times he and Sherlock had touched in a meaningful way in seven years of friendship. The hug at his wedding. The handshake (hand hold, if he was honest) before getting on the plane. His stag night...  
  
This couldn't be mistaken. This would be a marked deviation from their standard pattern. It would be noticeable.  
  
That was the point, John supposed.  
  
He screwed up his courage, checked his shirt one last time in the bedroom mirror, and descended the stairs to join Sherlock in the sitting room.  
  
"Ready to go?"

Sherlock had his back to him, staring out the window to the street below, hands clasped at the small of his back. A moment of silence passed before Sherlock stepped back from the window and turned, his expression unreadable. John steeled himself for his first attempt and raised one hand as Sherlock came close.  
  
He placed his hand gently on Sherlock's upper arm, then let it slide down until it cupped Sherlock's elbow. The touch was electrifying.  
  
"You sure you're up for this tonight? Mrs. Hudson would understand, you know," he asked, rubbing his thumb across the smooth fabric of Sherlock's fine suit jacket. He told himself he didn't actually sound breathless, but it didn't seem to matter much; Sherlock was speechless, his mouth slightly open and his eyes locked on John's. Frozen. Bad frozen, or... ?  
  
Only one way to find out.  
  
"Sherlock?" John said, shuffling a step closer and letting his hand drift along Sherlock's arm again. "You okay?"  
  
"Yes," Sherlock finally breathed. And, lo and behold, his hand gently came to rest on John's side.  
  
John touching arm connected to hand touching John.  
  
Heaven, heaven, heaven.  
  
John smiled, just a small thing, and squeezed Sherlock's arm once before letting his hand drift to the small of Sherlock's back to guide him out the door.  
  
"Let's go, then. Don't want to be late."  
  
And Sherlock seemed to walk extra close, linger extra near, as they went out the door and climbed into their cab.  
  
_Physical touch._  
  
Huh.  


* * *

 

  
Mrs. Hudson’s American sister-in-law had insisted on celebrating Thanksgiving during her visit, and as Lestrade was the only one among their acquaintances with an actual dining room, the responsibility of hosting had been thrust upon him.

John was quietly thankful for the tiny kitchens in both 221A and B; It was hard to get away from a gathering in one’s own home, but if Sherlock felt the need to leave Lestrade’s they could get away without much fuss. Memories of Mrs. Hudson’s late husband and the drugs he built his empire upon brought back urges from a darker time in Sherlock’s life, he’d confessed obliquely. He’d been fidgety all evening. Couch. Laptop. Violin. Microscope. Violin again.

Only John’s touch seemed to quiet Sherlock’s nervous energy.  
  
John never would have thought it before, but physical touch seemed like a win. There was something sweet about how, once Sherlock felt the warmth of John's touch, he seemed to crave it, unconsciously shifting closer and closer to John during their cab ride. Now that John thought back, though, he couldn't remember people touching Sherlock much. He seemed so cold, distance, _untouchable_ . To imagine that he'd been touch starved all along... it made John want to draw him near, hold him close, press his mouth to every inch of underappreciated skin—  
  
He forcibly dragged his mind back to the present and looked up to find Sherlock watching him. Normally he'd look away as quickly as he'd looked up, avoiding that intense gaze that made him feel so flayed open, so obvious. But today... he wanted to be seen. He wanted Sherlock to know. So he gazed right back, and even quirked a tiny smile. They didn't break the gaze for a long moment, until the cab pulled to a stop and the driver cleared his throat awkwardly.  
  
"There you are, mate," John said, handing over a few notes. "Good evening."  
  
The driver grunted a response and drove off, leaving John and Sherlock standing in front of Lestrade's building, alone on the sidewalk. Above, the curtain in one window jerked aside and Molly's face appeared briefly in view, then disappeared again. Sherlock drew in a bracing breath through his nose, and John saw his next opportunity.  
  
"Hey," he said, and nudged Sherlock's hand with his own. Sure enough, those long violinist's fingers twitched toward his, like they wanted but didn't dare.  
  
John dared.  
  
He took Sherlock's hand and squeezed, just once.  
  
"If you need to get out of there tonight, just say blue carbuncle, okay? We'll leave right away, promise."  
  
Sherlock smirked. "Blue carbuncle," he said dryly, but didn't remove his hand from John's, didn't dare to move at all.  
  
John gave him a mock glare. "Ha ha. Nice try."  
  
"You promised," Sherlock definitely did not whine, but he did... squeeze John's hand back ever so slightly. John's faintly amused grin deepened into something that bled from his chest and showed everything, he was sure. But he couldn't look away.  
  
Sherlock's breath hitched.  
  
Then the front door opened.  
  
"You guys planning to stand out in the cold all night?" Molly asked, her cheeks rosy from wine. "Come on in!"  
  
If she noticed their still clasped hands, she didn't say anything.  


* * *

  
  
  
The whole event was a bit strange.

Lestrade and Molly bustled around, placing dish after dish of food onto a table already creaking under the weight of an enormous turkey. Mrs. Hudson’s sister-in-law (“Call me Jane, I’m no one’s missus!”) directed the evening like an air traffic controller. John and Sherlock watched in wide-eyed horror as the dishes accumulated.  
  
"Are more people coming?" John finally asked, his voice faint.  
  
"No, no, just us," Molly said cheerfully, swirling into the dining room with a glass dish of... something marshmallowy. Call-me-Jane clapped in delight.

“Ooh, my favorite, you can put that one right down here by my place,” she said.

Mrs. Hudson eyed the dish skeptically, but took her place across from it all the same. “This really is quite the production when done at home. Nothing at all like those big catered suppers Frank made us have way back when, don’t you think, Jane?”

Jane lowered herself gingerly into her seat beside Mrs. Hudson and took her hand in both of hers. “Ah, but it’s so much more meaningful when it’s small and home done. It was so like Frank to have a big to do like that. Sherlock, you joined us for one right before Frank was arrested, didn’t you?”

The question and her sudden attention seemed to catch Sherlock off-guard, but he nodded. “Yes. Once.”

“You were such a young thing then. What, twenty-two?”

“Twenty-seven.”

“Ah, you seemed so much younger at the time, though I suppose some of that youthful energy may have been the drugs talking. Good thing you shut Frank’s business down before you indulged in too much of his product, am I right?”

It took everything John had to keep from laying into the woman when Sherlock’s expression shuttered, going utterly blank. He settled for his fiercest glare and leaned into Sherlock’s side.

“Blue carbuncle?” he asked.

Sherlock shook his head wordlessly, but shifted closer all the same.  
  
Lestrade entered with a bottle of wine, which John and Sherlock latched onto with a hint of desperation on both their parts. Sherlock stayed unusually quiet, so John stuck close, hovering at his side and murmuring a running commentary of the unusual dishes as they appeared according to Jane’s barked orders. Sherlock’s low, rumbling chuckles did just as much to warm John as the wine, though the vee of exposed skin at Sherlock’s throat may have been a contributing factor. By the time took their seats, John was once again dizzy with that same hazy intimacy he’d felt at dinner last week.

How he wished this dinner were just the two of them.  
  
Dishes passed and plates filled, piled high with too many kinds of potatoes and some kind of crunchy green bean concoction. Jane dominated the conversation, which was just fine with John. He sat back and ate, watching Sherlock from the corner of his eye for any sign of discomfort. The food on Sherlock’s plate melded into a pile of unfortunate colors and textures as he pushed it around listlessly.

Molly must have picked up on Sherlock’s unusual quiet, too, because she eventually broke into the conversation with a distraction.  
  
"So, what are you two doing for the holidays? Heading to Sherlock's parents house? Quiet day at home?"  
  
John and Sherlock looked at each other.  
  
"I'm sure John probably has plans—" Sherlock began, but John interrupted.  
  
"We should really go see your parents," he said, and went for attempt number three. He slid his hand onto Sherlock's thigh under the table and squeezed. "Give them a Christmas that doesn't involve them being drugged, don’t you think?"  
  
A smile twitched at the corner of Sherlock's mouth, and he had a bit of the same stunned look he'd gotten every time John had touched him. But this time...  
  
Sherlock covered John's hand with his own and squeezed back.  
  
"As much as I am loathe to admit it, you're probably right," Sherlock said, his voice overly confident to compensate for its roughness. "Mycroft would likely kidnap me and force me to go anyway. Attending voluntarily will throw him off. Your presence would certainly make the whole thing... more tolerable."  
  
John smiled. "That’s settled, then."  
  
_It's a date,_ he didn't say. Instead, he brushed his thumb over Sherlock's pinky where it rested near his. Sherlock's cheeks went a bit pink, but no one commented.

They didn’t move their hands for the rest of the evening. And when it came time to say what they were thankful for, neither of them spoke. They only looked at each other, smiled, and touched the rims of their wine glasses together with a faint clink.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

John had the cabbie let them off a few blocks away from Baker Street so they could walk off some of the pie-induced lethargy, and he wasted no time getting close to Sherlock, staying so near that they brushed together with every step. They walked in silence, the tension between them almost unbearably thick.   
  
It was happening. It was finally happening.    
  
Sherlock had  _ heard _ him.   
  
As they turned the corner onto Baker Street, Sherlock's steps slowed.   
  
"John."   
  
John looked up to find Sherlock's expression pinched with worry. He tried to speak twice more, then shook his head.    
  
"What is it?" John asked. His heart galloped faster. Had he read it all wrong? Had Sherlock been uncomfortable all night? No, he'd responded, reciprocated.  John may have occasionally touched Sherlock, but Sherlock never touched back in a way that could be construed as romantic. Tonight, though...   
  
Sherlock swallowed and looked away. When he looked back, his eyes were shining and intense, everything about his body language stiff and uncomfortable.   
  
"John, I'm afraid my judgment may be compromised. I am... unsure..."   
  
Sherlock winced and looked away again, shutting down.  _ No, no, come back, don't— _ __   
  
John reached out and took Sherlock's hand and threaded their fingers together right there in the middle of the pavement. Sherlock stared down at their entwined hands, his pulse visibly racing, thrumming in the long column of his throat. John's touch seemed to bolster Sherlock's confidence, and he went on.   
  
"You've been acting different. All week, but today especially."   
  
John nodded, and Sherlock seemed to relax at that, at knowing he hadn't been imagining things.    
  
"It's an experiment," John began, but Sherlock jerked away before he could finish, went rigid and cold.   
  
"I do not appreciate being experimented on, John," Sherlock spat, storming off. "I've never known you to be cruel—"   
  
"Sherlock, no!" Panic flooded John’s veins, and he jogged to catch up, pulling Sherlock to a stop by the arm.    
  
"You're not reading this wrong, Sherlock," he said firmly, his heart hammering. 

Time to put it all out there. Take a risk. Leave no room for Sherlock to doubt.

He took a deep breath and began.   
  
"I started after Mrs. Hudson told us about that love languages book, about how everyone wants love communicated to them in a different way."   
  
Sherlock stilled, not softening, but not bolting away either. John forged ahead.    
  
"I apparently tend to show how I feel for people through acts of service, but you’ve never responded to that. I thought that meant you didn't... care about me. Not like that. Maybe not at all," he added, then regretted it immediately. "I don't mean that. It was just... hard. Cooking dinner, doing the shopping, paying our bills, talking to Lestrade for you, and you seemed to think that was just... the way it was between us. So I tried to be happy with that."   
  
John swallowed hard, staring at the knot of Sherlock's blue scarf, the individual threads in the weave of the cloth, the sheen of the material. Say it. Say it.    
  
"But after what Mrs. Hudson said, about the love languages, I thought... maybe you just weren't hearing me because I wasn't speaking your language.   
  
Sherlock sucked in a small breath and... shifted closer.    
  
"So you tried all four of the others."   
  
John nodded. In for a penny...   
  
"I tried a gift first, but it didn't seem to make much of a difference.”

“The gloves.” Sherlock looked down at his hands and studied the material anew. “I do like them very much, John.”

“I’m glad,” he said with a smile. “I didn’t think gift giving would be it for you, but I had to try for the sake of getting a complete data set. It gave me a good baseline reaction to work from, too. Quality time was better, but we spend a lot of time together already, so it was hard to measure whether there was any difference. Besides, if it hadn't worked before, it was unlikely to work now. It seemed more likely that it was one of the two I had always avoided with you."   
  
Sherlock hummed. 

"Sound methods and conclusion," he murmured. "Your findings?"   
  
John dragged his knuckles up and down over Sherlock's arm, watching the effect: longer, slower breaths, half-lidded eyes, a sway closer.    
  
"At first I thought it might be words of affirmation. You always did love it when I called you brilliant," John said, which won a twitch of a smile. "But I couldn't come right out and say... everything. In case you really didn’t… want... But I tried. I got as close as I dared. And I got some results, but not what I was really looking for. So I figured, okay, if this last one doesn't do it, then it's just not going to happen."   
  
"And so you tried..."   
  
"Touch."   
  
John reached up to run a thumb over Sherlock's cheekbone, and Sherlock leaned into it until John's hand cupped his jaw. John's eyes fixed on that plush mouth, lips slightly parted, begging for his kiss. But not yet. He went on.    
  
"I realized that, in all the years we've known each other, we'd rarely had any kind of significant physical contact. I thought it was because you didn't like to be touched. But then you’d do something like ask me to get your phone from your pocket. It was really the opposite, wasn't it?"   
  
John felt Sherlock's nod in his hand.   
  
"I couldn't touch you and... and not... no one ever touches me. No one ever wants to."

John smiled.    
  
"I do." He slid his hand from Sherlock's jaw to the back of his neck, brushing the curls that hung there. "Let me show you."   
  
And all it took was the barest pressure from his hand to guide Sherlock down. He nuzzled Sherlock's nose as soon as it was within reach, then traced the tip of his own over cheekbone, then jawline. Sherlock's breath came in short, shuddering gasps as John's lower lip brushed over his, so dizzyingly close. 

Finally, _ finally. _

John leaned in and sealed their mouths together for the first time.

The collapse of tension was instant, both of them exhaling hard and collapsing against each other until they touched from thighs to mouth. Sherlock’s desperate little whimper drew a helpless groan from John’s throat, and he renewed the kiss, sinking one hand into Sherlock’s hair and pressing up into him. When they parted, Sherlock kept his eyes closed, his breathing shaky and uneven, and John’s heart swelled. It was too much, this moment. He would never be able to stop kissing Sherlock ever again. 

They kissed again, and again, little dips of tongue turning into something deeper, hot and wanting, that pulled everything from John’s heart to the surface and made his jeans feel far too tight. When he pulled Sherlock even closer against him and felt his answering hardness, he pulled away with a gasp.    
  
"We should go home," he said, taking in Sherlock's beautiful flush, his dilated eyes and kiss-swollen lips. Sherlock nodded, dazed, but when John moved to pull away, he clutched John closer and bent to press their foreheads together.    
  
"John, you..."    
  
Sherlock swallowed hard, hesitated, so John pressed one more kiss to his lips to reassure him. Sherlock huffed a small laugh.   
  
"John, I've been... trying to tell you. I fixed your limp. I brought you on cases, gave you work with purpose. I jumped off a building to protect you, I planned your wedding and shot a man for you. I..."   
  
John sucked in a breath at the rush of hot pressure behind his eyes. 

He hadn’t been the only one shouting at the top of his lungs, desperate to be heard, desperate to love and be loved. 

"God, Sherlock, I'm so sorry. When you spell it out like that—"   
  
Sherlock shook his head. "I wasn't showing it in a way that made sense to you. I only pushed you farther and farther away. But I think I know your language, John."   
  
John pressed his lips together and forced his breathing to be slow and even.    
  
"John Watson," Sherlock said, taking John's face in both hands. He visibly struggled with the words, but pushed ahead. "John, the moment we met in the lab at Bart's, I took one look at you and... I would have said or done anything to keep you with me. Our dinner at Angelo's that night is one of my biggest regrets because if... if I had said something different from the start, if I hadn't been so convinced that sentiment was weakness, if I'd actually stopped to think about what I was doing, then it might not have taken us seven years and several traumatic events to get me to say this."   
  
_ To say what? _ John wanted to scream, and Sherlock smiled his small, sincere smile, the gentle one only John ever seemed to catch, like he knew.    
  
"Your love language, John, is words of affirmation. You want me to clean the kitchen, and you appreciate touch, and quality time especially, but I think what you've wanted, all this time, was to know what you mean to me. To hear me say it." Sherlock swallowed hard. "Am I correct?"   
  
John's face screwed up into a pained expression as he tried not to let tears fall. He could only nod.  _ Please say it, please say it, please— _ _   
_   
And Sherlock leaned down until his lips brushed John's ear, and John felt them move as Sherlock whispered.   
  
"I am in love with you, John Watson. You are  __ everything to me."   
  
John's tears fell, hot and cathartic, with a great catching sob that carried with it all the crushing weight that had been lodged in his chest for years. His arms tightened around Sherlock, clutched him close as he struggled to master his reaction, but before long his gasps turned to laughter, which were apparently contagious. They clutched to each other, propping each other up as they laughed, kissed, and laughed again.    
  
"I will tell you every day, John," Sherlock said once their laughter died down. "I'll be sure to tell you in words how much you meant to me."   
  
John wound his arms around Sherlock's waist and drew him as close as he could.    
  
"And I will never stop touching you," he murmured against his lips. "I'll show you with my hands and lips every day how much I love you."   
  
Sherlock shivered and pressed in for a kiss. "You could show me in other ways, too," he suggested, and the words went straight to his cock.    
  
"Let me take you home right now, then,” he murmured. “I've got plenty to show you."   
  
Sherlock grinned wolfishly. "Did you know you have a very distinctive walk? From your gait and the jeans you select, I've estimated—"   
  
"Ah ah, that's one thing that's better shown than told, I think," John said.

He tugged Sherlock after him, and they walked home to 221B Baker Street hand-in-hand, constantly touching, laughing, looking forward to everything that lay beyond.    
  
Saying everything they’d always wanted to say and more.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All done! Not my best quality writing, but I HAD to get this idea out of my head before the new year, arg! Just a simple little fluff piece. Thanks so much for reading, folks. <3

**Author's Note:**

> More coming soon! Updates will be posted fairly quickly. Subscribe to me here or follow me on tumblr at [librarylock](http://librarylock.tumblr.com) for updates.


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